The Gonzo Journals
May 15th, 2023
Why do the best people always have the worst things happen to them while horrible people skate easily through life? This is something I’ll never understand. One of my major arguments against organized religion stems from this mystery.
What kind of a being worth worshipping and basing the laws of a modern society on would take children away from loving parents but allow an asshole with an assault rifle the ability to mow down an elementary school? What lesson do we learn from this logic? The answer is simple. If God is truly real, then Satan is an imaginary scapegoat to keep his/her good name on the up and up. Probably an anagram for an ex-lover named Nasta which, in turn, ironically fills in the blanks for another imaginary entity we’re led to love as children: Santa. Am I reaching? Doesn’t this sound like some bullshit we’d dig up on Hunter Biden’s laptop or in Donald Trump’s sewer pipes? It’s right up there with the revelation of alien beings strategically placed within our own society…but I tend to find that lunacy to be way more plausible.
Everyone prays for rain and then asks their God to bless the victims of the tornado which accompanied the storm. Are we, as people, just that goddamn needy or do we have the rules confused? Don’t bring survivor attention to the almighty! He meant to kill those people and they got lucky. He’ll send another tornado to finish the job, Moore, Oklahoma, and won’t stop until Toby Keith bows to the throne.
He? She? Who knows! If “He” made us in his own image, it explains how the trans bathroom argument started. Who gives a damn? Just piss! Maybe if conservatives weren’t trying to look at crotches all the time, they wouldn’t be offended by so many aftermarket dicks in the men’s room! They’re envious that trans men got to pick theirs out from the showroom floor instead of that tiny nub those rich, fat fuckers were born with and can only see with the help of a mirror. Penis envy is real in the minds of politicians who couldn’t get laid in a brickyard.
I have a friend in the worst pain imaginable right now because capitalist pigs invented a deadly drug for one reason and one reason only. To cause addiction and grief in the name of the almighty dollar. What kind of a loving being who inhabits every other billboard along the highways of the American South would allow such tragedies? That’s simple. The kind who answers the rich prayers first for a 10% cut every Sunday morning.
It’s the same presence crooked law enforcement officials hide behind whenever they need a come up. It’s the same convenient ghost who praises the touchdown pass but wasn’t responsible for the fumble two plays earlier. The sky dweller who parts the clouds and gives a hearty thumbs up to the Mercy Me concert dwellers as they intentionally blind themselves by looking skyward in a sunny, outdoor venue. It is the greatest practical joke in the history of mankind and the punchline is yet to be delivered.
Some will read this, friends included, and think I’m wrong. I’m fine with that. I’m glad the almighty has chosen to bless your life. You do you. As for me? That bastard has caused me more pain than any one man should be expected to endure. I was excommunicated almost 20 years ago for reasons that could’ve been avoided by simple questioning. It put an irreparable rift in my family, damaging my mental health in excruciating fashions worthy of nightmare sequences in Terry Gilliam films. Please tell me about the fucking golf shoes!
The list of my hatred grows daily. The light at the end of the tunnel is nothing more than a shiny quarter dangling from a rich bastard’s yoyo string, always just out of reach from needy hands. They called it a deity to sway the loyalty of the masses. Now, logic and truth are outnumbered, cornered by the foaming, angry mouths of loyalist bullies beneath the town steeple.
Sometimes I forget I’m a minister, but then I recall my reasoning for doing so to begin with. The god I worship is love, and I spread that love to the masses whenever requested. No, I don’t force it upon the unwilling, but offer lessons to those who ask in the name of companionship. Politically correct pronouns are not required in my church, and they never will be. I also NEVER ask for money. Love is free and is quite free-ing in return. Full circle. The Beatles were onto something. According to them, it’s all you need. End of song. Why do humans insist on giving it a face, a book, and a building? Love needs no PR campaign. Hate, on the other hand, fills the gaps in the nightly news.
It’s Monday, a good friend lost a child over the weekend, and I’m slowly going blind in my right eye. I injured it ten years ago while driving down the highway at 3am in a truck full of art belonging to billionaires. I injured it even more five years ago due to an accident I received while acting for charity work. I’m part of the VA system and surgery is out of the socialized medicine question. I’ll just lose sight in it eventually. I’m a big boy, though. I just drove home with dilated eyes and no sunglasses. It would’ve been nice if Jesus took the wheel, but I think I’ve already established my thoughts on that possibility. Elon Musk’s driverless cars are killing people left and right so, move over. I’m controlling this bitch.
Are you mad at me? Didn’t you read the title of this rant? You clearly offended yourself by being so nosey. Curiosity killed the cat, after all. Curiosity, and the blind guy who didn’t see the damn cat to begin with. Don’t bother commenting because I won’t read it. Use that energy to hug your children. They need it more than your destined social media commentary trying to prove me wrong.
On the brighter side of things, someone just spotted a copy of Starving Zoe in the Minneapolis Public Library. I guess I’m a real writer now. I didn’t even have to pray for it. I truly didn’t write this to offend anyone. The offended saw the warning and chose to get that way of their own free will. In the end, my ability to flush garbage from my head is more important than the squashed toes limping to Facebook to recruit members into the cancel culture army. I’ve already been cancelled, remember? To cancel me again would be to cancel the cancellation lifting my status back to uncancelled. No one wants that. It feels good to be nobody sometimes.
Peace is a pipe dream.
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